Like, a Million Alligators
by Osidiano
Summary: Scott/Stiles, post-3B/pre-season 4. Stiles rubbed at the red marks on his wrist absently as he remarks, "You know, it's good that you got to me when you did. They were probably going to take me back to their frat-lair and suspend me over a tank with like, a million alligators in it, or something equally lame."


**Author's Note:** theyoooraeken prompted me over on Tumblr, asking for a Skittles fic off the line "You did this all for me?" I didn't end up using the line in the fill, but it's still cute and coupley. Sorry for taking so long!

* * *

Stiles is not going to die.

He's been thinking this for about ten — okay maybe fifteen — minutes now since he's been taken. And, first off, what a shitty kidnapping job. Seriously. He's pretty sure that was _the worst_ kidnapping in the history of _ever._ Probably every single person in a two mile radius heard him screaming his head off when this handful of losers jumped out of a — not even kidding — windowless black van like something out of every Stranger Danger presentation he's ever seen and nabbed him while Stiles had been peering under Roscoe's hood, stalled out at a red light on his way over to the loft for a pack meeting. There'd been yelling and kicking and Stiles had managed to hit one of them with his wrench before they overpowered him.

Now he's laying on the floor in the back of the van with duct tape over his mouth and his hands zip-tied behind his back.

His heart is still beating a little fast and his breath is coming out too quick through his nose, but Stiles is totally not going to die. He's dealt with hardcore hunters and werewolves and a kanima and the Nogitsune and like the darkness in his heart or whatever, and he's come out mostly unscathed from all that, so this is, like, _nothing_. These amateurs are probably going to ransom him. As soon as the thought comes to him, Stiles scoffs at it. Ransom him? To who? For _what,_ even? Like, the amateur thing was a totally logical conclusion. Sloppy kidnapping, no vocal threats of 'comply or die,' so there's reason number two for why Stiles is totally probably most likely not going to die today, and —

Holy shit, he definitely forgot to take his Adderall this afternoon. No wonder he's having trouble focusing.

The dudebro looming over him nudges him in the ribs with the toe of his sneaker. "Quit fidgeting," he says, and doesn't even have the common decency to look intimidated by Stiles' impressive glower-face. Which, y'know, is _so rude_ , and besides, what kind of trashy second-rate kidnappers wear sneakers, anyway? Every kidnapper worth his salt that Stiles knows — which is pretty much limited to Gerard Argent and his hunter lackeys — would totally be wearing boots for this. Because boots make kids think of slasher flicks and scary shit, and this douchebag's Nikes are _not_ lending themselves to any kind of ominous foreshadowing for his future.

Which is _not_ even ominous because Stiles is _so clearly_ not going to die. He's not scared _a_ _t all_.

The van jerks to a sudden stop, causing Stiles to bounce uncomfortably on the floor and the dudebro to put a hand out on the van wall to steady himself. He hears the driver up front mutter a curse and then the sound of the vehicle's door opening and slamming shut. Door? Doors, he decides, meaning that whoever was up there in the passenger seat dismounted, too.

His blood is pounding in his ears, so he can't hear anything else. Which is stupid, _s_ _o fuckin' stupid,_ ugh. Stiles is _not_ scared of these assholes. This is _nothing_ like the last time he was kidnapped. He squirms against the restraints and Dudebro kicks him this time, hard enough to leave him breathless and gasping behind the tape.

"I _said_ —"

He's interrupted when the backdoor of the van is wrenched open with a scream of rending metal, hinge screws flying. Stiles looks up with wide, wet eyes, and for one brief, terrifying moment, rethinks his chances of survival as the door thunks down onto the asphalt.

Dudebro yells and moves to draw a weapon from the back of his pants, fumbling to get a decent grip and his finger on the trigger, as a clawed hand reaches in from the darkness and yanks him out of the van. The weapon discharges, but Stiles can't see where the shot went; probably wide or maybe the guy shot himself in his panic. There's a sickening _crunch_ of bone, loud in the aftermath of the gunshot, followed by the dull thud of a body hitting the pavement.

Stiles can't believe that he knows what that sounds like. Or, well, he _can_ , but it probably means that he needs more normal after-school activities, because seriously? _Seriously?_ Who even needs that kind of information?!

Something big and heavy moves in front of the gaping back of the van, blotting out the bit of sky that Stiles could see. There are red eyes glowing in the darkness, deep panted breaths and he can smell blood.

But then his eyes adjust and it's just Scott, looking slightly wolfy as he eases out of the Alpha Shift. Stiles breathes an audible sigh of relief and then voices a loud, wordless noise of complaint from behind the tape.

" _Stiles!_ " Scott hops up into the van and rips the tape off Stiles' mouth, which _ow_. His claws are still out and he makes quick work of the zip-ties binding Stiles before leaning in to nose along his hairline in worry and generally being super unhelpful with the whole 'getting up' thing. Stiles wrinkles up his own nose as something wet from Scott's cheek smears across his skin, the queasy feeling in his gut only getting worse when his hyperactive brain comes to the completely logical conclusion that it's probably dudebro blood. Ew.

"Oh, Scotty, gross," Stiles complains, trying and failing to wriggle away before just giving up on the endeavor entirely. He rubbed at the red marks on his wrist absently as he remarks, "You know, it's good that you got to me when you did. They were probably going to take me back to their frat-lair and suspend me over a tank with like, a million alligators in it, or something equally lame."

Scott whined at that, the sound low and wounded like an animal. Stiles could feel that weird, euphoric rushing sense of the pain in his wrists and ribs being drained away, though Scott was too close for him to see the werewolf's veins blacken. "I'd come get you even if there iwere/i a million alligators."

He huffs and bites back a caustic comment. His fingers are caught up in the fabric of Scott's shirt, pressed tight between their chests so they can both pretend he's not shaking.


End file.
